


tell me i'm a bad man, kick me like a stray

by trashcan_central



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon - Book, Death, Execution, F/M, Gore, Guro, Necrophilia, Resurrection, Smut, Throat Fucking, but not the kind you usually think about, is there a word for zombie fucking???, kind of???, zombie fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 07:08:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18773734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashcan_central/pseuds/trashcan_central
Summary: lady stoneheart gets her hands on jaime. she wants him dead. but she wants something else from him first.





	tell me i'm a bad man, kick me like a stray

**Author's Note:**

> hi i wrote this in 2013 and i think it deserves to see the light of day. needlessly dark and edgy, as with many things that came out of 2013. tags are there for a reason. proud to be the first work in the jaime/lady stoneheart tag and here's to many more!

it's impossible. jaime's own father had a hand in ensuring her death. joffrey, it was said, had never smiled as wide as when he was recounting the tale of her neck opening ear to ear and her body thrown in a river to rot amongst the trout.

yet here she stands, in a grey shift covered by a black cloak, dried blood caked around the wound on her throat. catelyn stark looks worse for the wear, but she is alive. and no part of her looks more alive than her blue eyes, piercing right through jaime.

he knows she found out how bran came to fall from that tower. he knows it was his own flesh and blood who ordered her husband's head off. he knows of the rumors that he had something to do with the massacre at edmure tully and roslin frey's wedding, though he doesn't know how they came about. he knows, as her men yank him towards a tall, sturdy oak, that he's going to die.

still, that doesn't mean he'll die quietly. the quick tongue he'd possessed before he lost his hand came back to him in the shadow of his inevitable doom. "death becomes you, lady stark," he says, lacing the same tone through his words as he had when he told her the same thing about her widowhood so long ago. "the pallor sets off your eyes."

"she don't speak," one of the men flanking him growls.

"she can hear…or did walder frey cut off her ears too?" he retorts, then sighs, clicking his tongue sympathetically. "death at the hands of a frey. hardly fitting of a noble wolf of house stark, but they got your son as well, didn't they? the king in the north."

to his chagrin, catelyn actually appears not to hear him…or, more likely, she's ignoring him in favor of the knotwork she's tying into a thick brown rope.

"what, are you making me a bracelet? cersei used to make those out of silk thread and force me to wear them. i suppose when you're dead - is that the appropriate term? - rope works as well as anything."

catelyn ties the last knot and holds up her creation, and a lump forms in jaime's throat. it's not a bracelet. it's a necklace of a sort, and the last one he'll ever wear.

she passes the noose to one of her men, who begins affixing it to a branch, and turns her ice-cold glare to jaime. the satisfied sparkle in her eyes reminds him of the way his sister watched the tower of the hand burn under her command. cersei looked so beautiful that night, a hungry lioness bathed in flickering light, more alive than ever. catelyn is dead, but the animalistic greed in her eyes is all the same. not a lioness. a wolf.

in spite of the sheer inappropriateness of the situation, blood rushes to jaime's cock as catelyn jerks her head towards the main road, mere yards from where they stand, and her men bow and head that way. the movement seems to have torn her throat even further at the sides of her wound, and a trickle of fresh blood crawls down her neck. bitterly, jaime thinks to himself that fucking a corpse is only a little lower in the judgment of most than fucking your sister.

he could run. he may have lost his sword hand, but both feet are still intact. catelyn seems to know that he won't. she moves slowly and deliberately, placing the noose around his neck, yanking it tight enough that jaime feels a burn. he grimaces down at the diminutive (yet somehow completely overwhelming) woman staring up at him like he's the ugliest sight she's ever seen."just can't let me die in comfort, can you?" he asks, rolling his eyes.

she doesn't speak. of course she doesn't speak; her crony just told him she doesn't speak. instead, she reaches down and gives his cock a hard, almost painful squeeze. jaime groans again, this time for a completely different reason.

it's only once she's got his breeches unlaced and down around his ankles that the sheer absurdity of the situation overtakes the desire in his mind. "are you going to fuck me before you kill me?" he asks.

catelyn doesn't take her eyes off him, and they don't hate him any less. but she kneels down on the forest floor and licks up the length of him. her tongue is dry, like sand, and under the strange layers of pleasure he vaguely wonders if all dead people have dry mouths. she motions for him to reach up and tighten his noose. it goes against every survival instinct he's got, but he shudders to think of what might happen to him if he doesn't.

he pulls it tight enough that he's seeing stars, which he might have done anyway as catelyn takes him into her mouth, deeper into her throat…and that's still wet. jaime wonders if it's saliva or blood, but it doesn't matter as catelyn pumps his cock in and out of her mouth faster than cersei ever did. perhaps being dead makes these things more comfortable, he thinks. it's an overload of sensations: the pleasure, the senselessness of the situation, the impending sense of doom. with his blood supply being cut off by the rope around his neck, jaime can't make sense of it at all.

when he's on the edge of orgasm, catelyn leans back, looking up at him with a sick smirk on her face. jaime exhales sharply, trying to ignore the throbbing in his groin. "i understand. it's torture," he says, more in resignation than in sarcasm. so this is how jaime lannister, the kingslayer, the greatest swordsman in westeros, dies: swinging from a tree with one hand and a hard cock. he wonders what his sister will think. hopefully, she won't believe the rumors.

catelyn scrapes off the dried blood around her fatal wound with sharp fingernails, arching her neck backwards until the skin splits anew. the wound goes deep; whichever frey killed her wanted her to stay dead. jaime would laugh at the irony if the rope wasn't already cutting into the skin of his throat. the humor dies as he realizes what she has in mind.

in any other case, he would protest. in any other case, the mere thought would bring him to gag and retch, maybe even vomit. but he's about to die and catelyn stark no longer seems like the type to take no for an answer; might as well die with a new experience under his belt (and without the eternal erection).

she guides his cock into the middle of her throat, and gods, it's tighter than anything he's ever fucked before. it's bloody and strangely cold, but jaime barely lasts five thrusts before a white-hot orgasm overtakes him and he spills his seed down catelyn's esophagus.

he tries, but he can't catch his breath due to the noose around his neck. his vision goes blurry as catelyn stands up, straightens her dress, and moves out of his field of sight. he barely feels his feet leave the ground, barely hears his neck snap.

-

it's just red light. he wonders which of the seven hells he's made it to.

he can't move from the neck down, can't feel his body at all, but there's something warm and wet on his lips. it moves away, replaced by a cool breeze. and suddenly, jaime lannister finds himself fully conscious on the forest floor.

a woman, dressed all in red, stands over him smiling. "welcome back," she murmurs.

he feels like he's been trampled by an entire dothraki horde. sitting up makes his head spin. every muscle in his body aches like nothing he's ever felt before, not even when he lost his hand. that's the one memory he can clearly recall. everything else is a blur of lost kings and green eyes and battle cries and death, death everywhere.

death and sex.

he remembers blood on his cock twice: once in baelor's sept with his dead son too close and once right here, right under this tree.

he opens his mouth to ask what in all seven hells has happened to him, but his voice comes out a rasp. the woman in red kneels by his side and tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. "the red god cannot heal all things, not after three days of death, but your eyes will see and your body will feel and your legs will work."

three days of death?

"i saw you in his fires," she continues. "you are not done here. your mind has been reduced to a primal state, but your purpose will be clear to you."

she offers a hand to help him up, peering curiously into his eyes. "r'hllor will make sure you know why you are here."

he doesn't know what she means by that. perhaps his reasoning skills decreased over his short-lived death.

he does know two things: death and sex.

the red woman points him toward the road and disappears as quickly as he had gained consciousness.

"cersei," he rasps, stumbling along the hoofprints and carriage wheel tracks that line the road. most of them are heading in one direction: to kings landing. he knows what he'll find there. his sister, golden and beautiful as ever, and the band of outlaws looking to kill her and the rest of his house. two things he's looking forward to seeing again. "cat."


End file.
